


Skirt the Bounds of Decency

by Ammeh



Series: FE3H Wankfic [10]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Covert Masturbation, F/F, Injury Recovery, Masturbation, Medical Examination, No Discovery, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Route-agnostic, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammeh/pseuds/Ammeh
Summary: After two weeks of recovering from an injury, Dorothea is frustrated enough to try out a hands-free toy to relieve some stress. Of course that's when Manuela drops by for a check-up.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Manuela Casagranda
Series: FE3H Wankfic [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862374
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59
Collections: FE3H Wanksgiving Weekend





	Skirt the Bounds of Decency

**Author's Note:**

> For FE3H Wanksgiving Weekend! (No hands + voice + discovery/fear.) I apologize if there are any medical inaccuracies in this fic that can't be chalked up to magically assisted healing.
> 
> While writing this, I realized that Manuela's sprite and concept art actually give her normal holes for lacing up her dress, and the weird irregular lacing is the result of her saying "fuck it" to two-thirds of them. It's beautiful.

Of all the inconveniences Dorothea might have imagined she’d endure while recovering from an injury, feeling pent up was near the bottom of the list.

But as she enters the third week of sore ribs and a splinted wrist, it’s become increasingly top of mind. On the fourth day, resting in her room with fading painkillers and not nearly enough to do, she’d tried masturbating to take her mind off things, and hit complete and utter failure—her usual hand out of commission, her ribs protesting every time she leaned too far forward for a good angle. Before all this, she would have expected a month without orgasm to be an easy trial, but the frustrated, simmering awareness that she _can’t_ get herself off has made her crave it far more than usual.

Enough so that she’d crept down to Abyss, to the shop spoken of in giggles and whispers, and spent an amount she’d rather not recall on the item currently sitting on her desk.

The shopkeeper—well, more of a dark-corner-keeper, really—had promised hands-free orgasms, and Dorothea was just desperate enough to take that gamble.

Compared to some of the other toys the shopkeeper had pulled out of her suspicious trunk, it doesn’t look like much. A plump, angled bulb that tapers to a narrow neck, with a flexible arm on the end that’s supposed to rest against her clit and deliver magical pulses whenever she squeezes. Dorothea doesn’t even know what a magical pulse is supposed to _feel_ like, but here she is, slicking the thing up to find out.

Getting dressed and undressed is a bit of a trial at the moment, so she just removes her underwear and lifts up her skirts. It’s a bit of a strain to press the toy in, but once she’s past the widest part of the bulb her body almost pulls in the rest. With the bulb snug up inside her, she adjusts the arm with her available fingers, and tries out a quick— _oh!_

It’s like something’s vibrating against her clit, but nothing is actually moving—just waves of sensation pulsing out from where the arm of the toy touches her body. 

The bulb just feels odd at first, a foreign weight inside her, but as her arousal builds, the pressure against her walls feels more and more delicious when she grips it. She can’t help but tease herself, squeezing down on the bulb slowly and luxuriously to make the pulse build, holding for as long as she can stand the sensation at its peak

Of course, that’s when there’s a knock at the door. 

It’s probably Manuela coming to drop off more medicine again. Should she...no, it’ll just be a moment, she can answer like this.

It’s not that she _wants_ to see Manuela, or Manuela’s cleavage, right now, she just doesn’t have a good spot to quickly hide the toy. And she’s not in a great state to be hurriedly yanking something out of her pussy. She’ll just...quickly answer and try not to let her eyes wander.

Breath held, she opens the door. Oh good. It _is_ Manuela.

Oh no. She’s wearing that dress. Eyes up. Up.

“Hey Manuela! Here with more medicine, I assume?” That sounded natural, right? She’s an actress. She can do this. 

“That’s part of it, but I also wanted to check up on how you’re healing, dear. Mind if I come in?”

Dorothea abruptly discovers that she tightens her pelvic muscles when surprised. 

And that magic pulses on her clit are something of a detriment to her ability to think up excuses.

“No!” she says, a split-second before the pause becomes awkwardly long. “Not at all. What did you want to check up on?” 

Manuela steps into the room and locks the door behind her. Dorothea has too many fantasies that start this way.

“Check on how the bruises are healing, make sure you’re breathing well...Do you mind taking off your dress?”

_Shit._

“Just the top is fine.”

_Oh, phew._

The dress she’s recovering in is simpler than her usual, but the buttons are still enough to make her wince when she tries to undo them in a hurry.

“Here,” Manuela says. “Let me help?” She steps in front of Dorothea, holding her hands out.

Yes, this is usually about how those fantasies go. Dorothea swallows. Her pussy twitches reflexively, and—surprise, rediscovers the bulb buried in it. And the vibrating function. 

“Go ahead,” she says, a little too breathy.

Manuela unbuttons the blouse of her dress, careful and efficient—the hands of a doctor accustomed to quick costume changes. The sides of her palm keep grazing Dorothea’s skin through the fabric, and Dorothea finds her tits suddenly hypersensitive, each incidental brush of Manuela’s hand lighting a flare between her legs. It’s taking all of her self discipline not to lean into it, or squeeze the bulb inside her to chase those flares of heat.

How did she even end up here? This isn’t the kind of thing that happens to her. Opening the door while masturbating and winding up stuck in a social interaction with a sex toy still buried up her pussy is the type of situation that someone like...Manuela would find herself in. 

_Well, you did want to be just like her,_ she thinks, a bit hysterically.

Manuela’s fingers brush her bare skin directly as she eases the blouse off Dorothea’s shoulders, then carefully maneuvers the wide sleeve over her splinted hand. She steps around and with a few more quick tugs Dorothea’s back is bare—it’s scarcely more skin than her usual dress, why does she feel so exposed?

“Do you mind if I unfasten your bra, dear? You can leave it on.”

_Manuela, I’m not sure you want to know how little I would mind that._

“Not at all!” she says brightly, forcing neutrality into her voice. “Go ahead.”

And then Manuela is undoing her bra, and maybe it’s the sex toy up her cunt, but she can’t convince her body that the context isn’t sexual. The back falls open and it’s just hanging loosely off her shoulders in front of her tits, ready to be shoved aside with a brush of a hand.

But rather than touching her bra any further, Manuela moves her—just a suggestion, a hand on her side and her arm, suggesting a small correction like she must have done a hundred times back when they were blocking out scenes. It’s just to get better light, but…she’d forgotten how much this affected her, letting Manuela guide her where she wanted her. 

This is agonizing.

“The color looks good—well, not _good_ good, but the color that it should be at this point.” Manuela’s hand settles lightly on her back, at a spot that had Dorothea whimpering at the slightest pressure two weeks ago. “Does that hurt at all?”

“Not yet, no.” But Manuela’s hand is hot on her back, and that’s...an entirely different problem.

Manuela’s fingers press in gently.

“That’s still a little sore.”

Manuela quickly eases off, but keeps her hand there. “But just sore? No shooting pain?”

“Just sore.”

Manuela’s hand shifts lower, to a strangely sensitive spot on her lower back, a place that men like to touch solicitously when escorting her to her room after their one and only date. It usually bothers her, is part of why she wears a dress that bares it to scare away hands—but having Manuela’s touch there is... _oh._

“And here?”

“That’s fine,” she manages.

Manuela asks about a few more spots on her back, as Dorothea barely dares to breathe, and then steps away. 

Are they done? She’s not sure whether she’s disappointed or relieved.

But no, Manuela steps around to her side, presses a hand gently against her ribcage, right under her tits. “How is that?”

 _A few inches too low, honestly._ “Fine.”

A repeat on the other side. Manuela has to step a bit closer to do it, her breasts are brushing Dorothea’s arm—and the bruise here is a bit higher, so her thumb is just barely touching the underside of Dorothea’s tit where the loose bra is lifted away from her body.

Dorothea can’t help it. She clenches down. 

It feels so _wrong,_ waves of pleasure flowing over her clit and a plump bulb in her cunt while Manuela checks her injuries, oblivious. But—Manuela’s hand is _so close_ to her tit. If she just bent her knees a little it would slide up to cup her, find her nipples hard—

Manuela’s hand shifts just a tiny bit upwards as she tries pressing down, and Dorothea gasps.

Immediately, Manuela lets up, and Dorothea loses her grip in embarrassment.

“Still painful there?”

“A bit, but it was mostly just...unexpected.”

Thankfully, Manuela doesn’t question her flimsy justification. Instead, she shifts her hand to the center of Dorothea’s ribcage, and settles the other on her back. “Breathe in for me. Keep going until it gets too uncomfortable.”

Dorothea inhales—shallowly at first, like she’s gotten used to, then deeper at Manuela’s urging. As she breathes in, she gives into the urge to squeeze down again, just for one delicious moment, before inhaling actually does start to hurt and she has to release.

Manuela makes a doctorly noise, and Dorothea really shouldn’t be finding that arousing. “You’re healing, but you need to stop adjusting your breathing patterns so much. It’s not good for your lungs.”

“Right. I’m sorry, you told me not to do that. I promise you that I didn’t do it intentionally, I just—didn’t realize quite how much I’d started correcting.”

“No, honey, I should have come by to check on you before now. Trust me, I’ve got more than enough experience to know that giving people a dozen different instructions at once means they’re not all going to stick. Especially when you do it while they’re out of their minds with pain.”

Dorothea shakes her head. There were a lot of injuries in that last battle—too many to cure everyone with white magic alone. Dorothea should have been doing what she could to help, but instead she got sloppy and wound up taking resources herself. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, Manuela. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.” 

“You shouldn’t have to, dear. Let me give you what I can.” 

She laughs—or tries to, her body reflexively cuts it off in her throat so it comes out as more of a huff. “Manuela, you do far more for this army than I do. Let me help _you_. I should be fit enough to help out in the infirmary again by now, right?" 

Manuela’s hands are still on her skin, and it’s not helping her calm down. “Well, I’m not about to say no to more help. Light activity would be good for your healing process. But first, I want to listen to your chest.” She bends down, and presses her ear below Dorothea’s right clavicle. “Breathe in again, will you?”

Dorothea has to hold in a gasp. She can feel Manuela’s breath on her tits as she speaks, her chin pressing ever-so-gently into the soft flesh at the top. 

She gives into the urge to clench down on the bulb inside her before she even starts inhaling. It’s so easy to imagine that Maneula is about to kiss her tits like this, or suck a lovebite into her skin. As the pulse builds she thinks about having Maneula’s mark on her cleavage, how her dress would just cover it, how she could lean forward and give Manuela a private peek the next day.

Sadly, her ribs protest before she’s had nearly enough, and Manuela lifts her head.

“All right. Everything sounds good in there for now.” Is she...blushing? No, Dorothea must be imagining things. “Now, there is one other thing I’d like to check. Can you try singing for me? It would be a shame if you developed bad breathing habits.”

 _Oh._

How many times has she touched herself to the thought of being onstage, having to perform, to sing, while someone hikes up her gown from behind and fills her pussy, or kneels beneath her hoop skirts and secretly eats her out? She's never worked up the gall to actually sing while touching herself, afraid of what her voice might do for someone to overhear—but she has an excuse now, doesn't she?

Manuela’s hands settle on her back and chest, over her diaphragm. 

Among the hundreds of songs she knows, a fervent declaration of ardor is the first thing that jumps to her lips. “ _Across the field of battle, I heard your passioned call.”_

Hidden beneath her skirts, her pussy is soaking, her clit hungry and impatient. She doesn’t even make it through the first verse before squeezing down, the pangs of discomfort in her chest nothing next to the throb of the toy between her legs.

“ _My sword slipped from my fingers, I fell into your thrall.”_

“Keep going,” Manuela murmurs. “Show me how long you’re comfortable keeping this up.”

The tone, the feel of Manuela’s palm pressed just below her tits, makes it effortless to imagine this differently—to imagine her skirt hiked over her ass and Manuela fingering her from behind as she tries to keep her voice clear.

She launches into the rest of the aria, her voice rising to the power of it. It’s exhilarating, the joy of singing for the first time in weeks layered over the thrill of her pussy rhythmically clenching with each note. 

Manuela makes a soft approving noise, and Dorothea can’t accept it, is sure she would be disappointed if she knew what was going on...but in the throes of song and pleasure, all she can imagine is Manuela’s voice turning stern as she yanks away Dorothea’s bra and takes that tiny crop she uses as a pointer to her tits.

She’s barely easing up on the bulb anymore, struggling to remember the next verse over the overwhelming pleasure between her legs. She’s going to come like this, she realizes. Fully capable of stopping at any time, and instead she’s going to keep hurtling towards the climax.

Her voice soars towards the crescendo, gripping that bulb inside her harder—she’s almost there, Maneula is going to _watch her come—_

Her voice breaks on the crescendo as her orgasm hits. The toy’s buried up inside her and this is where she’d normally pull away but she _can’t_ , her pussy’s spasming around the bulb and setting off more pulses and there’s nothing she can do but ride them out. 

She tries to continue the note but her voice is unsteady, embarrassing. At least she has a pain in her chest to blame it on. 

“You can stop, dear.” Manuela pulls her hands away. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Right. Strain herself. That’s what she was doing. 

Now that she’s come, the shame hits harder, a guilty sinking in her stomach. But her pussy’s wet and satisfied, perking up for seconds as her eyes unconsciously wander over Manuela’s cleavage. 

“Right,” she says. “Sorry, I got a little carried away. How’d I do?”

“That was very good,” Manuela says, reaching into her coat pocket. “As both a physician and an opera star, I’d recommend you start practicing again. At least fifteen minutes a day until you’re healed. You may want to choose less strenuous pieces for now though.” She pulls out a fresh packet of the medicine Dorothea’s been using to sleep, and sets it on the dresser.

Okay. The exam is over. Now she just needs to decide whether she’s hiding under her covers in shame once Manuela leaves, or going for another round.

But rather than walking towards the door, Manuela pulls a second item out of her pocket. A small jar.

“Now then,” she says, taking off the lid. “Let me help you put some salve on all those bruises.”


End file.
